So we left the okra, but tilled up the rest. Two of our beds are in pretty good shape, but one of them, the newest, is nothing but rocks and clay. I can tell you from personal experience, everytime you run across a rock with a roto-tiller, you feel it all the way from you shoulders to your sacroilliac. Normally, I would identify the rocks as granite, but I'm not sure that would be correct. Jamie Iredell tells me the rocks we have here aren't true granite, and that even Stone Mountain, famously billed as the largest piece of exfoliated granite on earth is actually not that, but some other rock. This does not disturb me as much as it might. I've grown up calling many things by the wrong names. As children, we always called the raucus summer insects high in the pine trees locusts. They are not locusts, of course, but cicadas. Likewise, we called a charming little lizard who had the ability to change from green to brown a chameleon. Again, it is not a chameleon, although I do not know its true designation. So, now I hear I've even been calling our local rocks by the wrong name, but I am undisturbed. We had so much of it lying around, I guess we naturally took it for granite. (Ah-ha-ha-ha! I've been waiting this entire blog for that line, and now I'm not sure it was worth it.)
Anyway, now the soil is tilled, and as I type this, I am tired but content. There is something beautiful in turned soil. Tomorrow we will plant.
Wish us luck.
